


Together

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not a party. There’s no great big dinner around the table or speeches or karaoke or cool costumes, but there are <i>people</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together

**Author's Note:**

> Edited version of something written on my tumblr just over three years ago, very loosely tied into winter holidays. (I think, in this case, it may have been either Canada or the USA's Thanksgiving.)

_‘Quiet_ ,’ England had said eventually, after pondering forever, and he’d looked at America so _thoughtfully_ as he’d said it, dumping their used dinner dishes in the sink. Alfred visits enough to no longer merit true ‘guest’ status in England’s homes; he has to help with washing up - and it’s always _him_ , even when Canada’s visiting as well, because England insists America makes the most mess, and, besides, Canada had cooked the dinner (and then escaped to his room, the traitor). ‘ _You may have a small gathering here, if you want one so much, but make sure it’s quiet. I have work to do.’_

(It’s as cold and lonely in England as it is anywhere else in November – so England smiles when he sees that America’s decorated the living room in strings and strings of golden fairy-lights fished down from some nether-space in the attic, and doesn’t say a word about the electricity bill or holidays that aren’t his own.)

It’s not a party. There’s no great big dinner around the table or speeches or karaoke or cool costumes, but there are _people_ , pulled in from nearby. Scotland is busy but Wales comes, brings New Zealand who had been visiting him, and loses him to a three-way wrestling match with Northern Ireland (who had brought himself, and booze confiscated three steps through the door) and America for the TV remote. Wales takes the kitchen and brings out an endless supply of cheese on toast to match England’s only _slightly_ burnt fairy cakes (Canada had salvaged them earlier, and had discreetly fed the burnt bits to a hungry Kumajirou pawing at his knee). Seychelles had cooed at the lights when she’d first come in, happy to show off the coat she’d bought whilst visiting France – and France himself had come in at her heels, smiled his charming welcomes at those already assembled, and had promptly taken it upon himself to remove Arthur from where he’d hidden himself away in his study (with the Irish alcohol, no doubt).

France is gone a while – long enough for Northern Ireland to win the remote after bargaining with New Zealand to sit on America until America caved to their combined demands – but returns towing a pink, only _mildly_ protesting England by the wrist, depositing him on the sofa with a cake shoved in his mouth to end the last of his half-hearted complaints.  Someone – America strongly insists it’s Canada (and glares at his neighbour) – blithely suggests they try the same method on America and the Irish brat rather gleefully shoves two cupcakes in America’s mouth. America goes to protest but, for once, England’s cooking isn’t that bad (God bless Canada) and so he ends up eating them quite happily. (France mutters something about an oral fixation, but finds his own mouth suddenly occupied when England shoves a cushion in his face.)

They argue – about how both Wales’ and England’s cooking still sucks (and their vehement denial), about who in the room makes the best hot chocolate, about whose turn it is to pick the programme they’re going to watch, and about how making your polar bear sit on the remote and _growl_ is _cheating._ Finally having gotten free of New Zealand, America sulks on the floor beside England’s seat and, magnanimously, only mocks England for breaking out his embroidery once, peering up at his former mentor's lap at the swirling mix of stitched green ivy and white birds made by the needle’s steady in-out flash.

It’s golden there; France had switched off the overhead lights when the evening faded into later night, before taking the seat at England’s side. (He'd carefully made a line of cushions to separate them both before sitting down, but the cushions are quickly forgotten when he tucks his legs up.) The fairy-lights remain on but their twinkling isn't bright enough for needlework, so England switches on a muted lamp beside him, its light making everything soft and butter-mellow.

Softened by the tussling earlier, by the food in his belly and the amber dim, America slowly, sleepily, leans into the warmth beside him, resting his side and head against England’s leg and knee. Still sewing, England doesn’t move him, and, seeing a good cushion available, Kumajirou pads over, taking America’s lap and curling up for a nap there himself.

Canada, Wales, New Zealand, Seychelles and Northern Ireland play snakes and ladders sprawled out over the carpet. The TV’s a background murmur by that point, an illuminated glow – and Northern Ireland joins America asleep, dozes off between dice rolls against Wales’ side and doesn’t move when his older brother gently brushes his hair away from his face. A murmured ‘ _do you remember when you were that cute?’_ earns France an English elbow in his ribs – but it’s a gentle blow, made not to jar Alfred’s slumber, and France just laughs when his breath returns, smiles at Canada’s worried look and motions the younger Nation back to the last threads of his game.

Seychelles ends up using Northern Ireland as a pillow. They’re both dark-haired children, bright and brighter-eyed, and it’s quiet when they sleep, Northern Ireland still curled determinedly into his brother, Seychelles, with her hair-ribbons coming loose around her face, one hand half-clutching at the other Nation's shirt. New Zealand pulls the ribbons away to be found again in the morning, tries to pull Wales free of the other two but ends up laughing when the movement makes the youngest of them clutch even more tightly to the elder’s torso, wrapping Wales up in lanky limbs and mumbling something about stupid leeks.

_‘Is it alright to just sleep here?_ ’ Canada asks England lowly, goes to lean against his own sleeping twin and watches as Wales huffs, gives in, and asks New Zealand to fetch him a pillow and blankets so he can just sleep on the floor.

Waiting for their host's answer, France draws his fingers idly through Canada’s hair, a brief caress. Canada turns his head into the petting, resting the sofa’s cushions against his cheek as he looks up at his former guardians through half-closed eyes, remembering. (France is humming as England embroiders peacefully, as France smoothes down Canada’s curls, something so soft it takes  being this close to hear, quiet and gentle and wondering and old, candlelight against the dark.)

_‘If you wish to,_ ’ England says, looks away from his work for a moment to half-smile. Most of the expression is n his eyes. _‘You know where everything is.’_

Canada does – and so he stays, sleepy himself, dozing off on America’s shoulder once he’s tilted his brother's mouth away so the other won’t drool in his hair. Rests a hand in Kumashishi’s fur.

The others are there, Wales stretching out a hand to flick off the TV, warming the two smaller Nations with him on the floor. New Zealand doing the sensible thing and taking the armchair, falling asleep curled up like one of his stranger creatures, his shoes kicked off to rest on the carpet.

England sets down his embroidery and switches off his lamp after a little while. He can’t move very far, not with the weight of America and Canada and Kumajirou trapping his legs in place, but France pulls his torso round, shushes England when he protests and offers the use of his lap as a pillow, comfortable himself. England is too – well. It’s far too late to complain and he’s tired and the frog will – and it’s not like he _wants_ to, good _God_ no _–_

England sleeps in France’s lap, shushed again, and France sleeps last of all, closing his eyes to the fairy-lights and dreaming of hearth fires and lost times and fairytales told wrapped up in layers and layers in winter to ward off the monsters in the night.

(America wakes up first in the morning, to a room full of sweetly sleeping Nations around him, together and peaceful. He blinks, blearily, adjusts his glasses where they’ve been pushed down his nose in his sleep and then _smiles._

It’s quiet.

America goes back to sleep.)


End file.
